


Poppy Red

by anenigmaticsmile



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 21:52:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12803154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anenigmaticsmile/pseuds/anenigmaticsmile
Summary: Everyone knows that being twenty-three and terribly ill really only means one thing.





	Poppy Red

The apartment comes cheap. Excessively cheap. But Jongin doesn’t really have room to worry about it. Excessively cheap is the only thing he can afford on the tiny savings that have brought him here.

It’s a tiny place, barely room to breathe, much less live. The bed is lofted above a small table, which presses against the chest of drawers that make up the only storage in the place. The swing of the door takes up the rest of the room; the bathroom is shared, at the end of the hall.

But he can live with that, he supposes. It’s not like he has much to his name anyway. And when he’s pulled in what little he has - thrown his blankets on the bed, set his rice cooker on the table, tucked his plants on the chest of drawers - it feels a little more like a home.

He starts work that first morning, pulling an opening shift at a friend’s shop. Only place he could find work on such short notice. It’s not as bad as he’d feared.

Sure, there are a lot of slow periods, a lot of rude customers. But Jongin likes sitting in the back with the flowers, and some of the customers are sweet.

Days come and go. He tires. He pales. Miss Sophie, who comes in every day at noon wearing a blue dress and straw hat to buy exactly three sprigs of baby’s breath, notices. She buys a little red poppy, and tucks it in his hands.

“She wants to protect you,” she says, in the way of wrinkled old women. “Let her try.”

\--

Baekhyun has always been active. Sitting still just doesn’t seem to work. There’s always something to do and something to see. Normally it doesn’t cause too much trouble, this need to move. At least, not since he graduated school. He had immediately picked up a job at a local nursery, and it fits perfectly. The little kids certainly don’t mind having someone to run around with, and the teachers appreciate the time to work in peace.

He goes from work to his second job, a few hours in the evening at a little cafe, and then he usually goes out with friends. Sometimes just himself. And then he stumbles in a little before midnight, finally tired and a little bit drunk, stopping just long enough to take his shoes off before collapsing on his bed. He’s not a complete heathen, after all.

But then the third week of November rolls around and it’s like he hits a brick wall. He’s tired, like he’s never been before. He begs off of drinks to go home and read. He calls in sick to the nursery because he can’t pull himself out of bed. He figures it’s just a bug. He’ll sleep it off soon enough.

\--

Nothing is appetizing, and Jongin knows it shows.  His clothes are starting to get baggy and he can count his ribs when he stands in front of the mirror.  Junmyeon stops him as he’s clocking out, the fourth Tuesday of January, and invites him to dinner.  Miss Sophie gives him cakes every Tuesday and another flower every Friday and comforting smiles the rest of the week.

But it’s not like it’s worth anything.  Food just isn’t appealing.  Still, Jongin tries.  He wakes up and makes breakfast.  He makes extra rice for his dinner and packs a large lunch.  He forces his food down until he feels sick, and then a little more.  There’s still always some left.

When he was fifteen, it was just one of the magics of teenage boyhood, eating mountains of food and still managing to lose weight.

When he’s twenty-three, it’s a little more worrisome.

\--

In the middle of February, Baekhyun quits the nursery, collecting hugs and crumpled drawings from dozen tiny hands.  His energy still hasn’t come back from November and it’s finally time to give in to reality.  His new job consists of sitting in a cushioned chair and answering phones for eight hours a day.  It’s honest work.  It pays the rent.

As he crashes into bed at half past eight on a Friday night, exhausted to his very bones, he realizes that he’s scared.  He’s already twenty-five.

\--

(Fifth grade health courses all look the same.  An old woman wearing too much perfume walks into the classroom with gym teacher.  She takes the girls to another room, where she teaches them about the horrors of life.  The boys get to stay and hear about their own growing pains from a man who survived them himself.

When the groups are brought back together, the atmosphere settles from general disgust to solemn contemplation as the projector hums to life.

“Soulmates,” the film always starts, a deep voice that booms through tinny old speakers, “are a fact of life.  Each of you has one; it is your duty to find them.”  As scenes of domestic bliss play out, it continues.  “When you are with your soulmate, there will be no pain.  The world is a beautiful place when shared with your soulmate.  Everything is brighter.  The birds sing sweeter and the wind blows gentler….”  It continues, extolling the virtues of a soulmate.

There’s always one kid who raises their hand at the end of the video and asks, “What if we don’t want a soulmate?”

The adults are always aghast. 

“Soulmates,” they warn, “are _necessary_ for life.”)

\--

Jongin lives alone in an apartment that is barely big enough for himself and his forest of potted plants, and it’s his own damn fault.  The thing is, he doesn’t particularly care.

He doesn’t care because he remembers being twelve and wondering why his classmates had become obsessed with every mark on their skin, wondering if it was a message from their soulmate.

He doesn’t care because he remembers being fifteen and watching his best friend crushed by the realization that his soulmate was an empty-minded girl who could think of little more than when she could next get high.

He doesn’t care because he remembers being eighteen and finally finding the strength to voice his greatest belief.  “I don’t _want_ a soulmate,” he had said, quietly at first and then forcefully, again and again into frozen air in the middle of the night.

And he _doesn’t fucking care_ because he remembers making a panicked phone call at half past two in the morning, when he was twenty-three and homeless.  “If you really want to be alone so badly,” his father had said, when Jongin finally refused to pretend to _care_ any longer, “then you can leave.  I’m not boarding suicidal idiots.”

Jongin is twenty-three and he still doesn’t _want_ a soulmate.

His apartment is small but it’s cheap and it’s _his_ and he’s _happy_ with this life.

And then he wakes up on the eighteenth of February with a thick black streak across his forarm.

\--

Baekhyun stares at the mark on his arm.  The marker drops to the ground as he realizes what he’s done.

He’s never seen a mark like that on his skin.  It’s a child’s game, drawing shapes on your own skin in hopes that your soulmate will respond.  He’d never done it as a child, preferring to mess around with his friends when they weren’t looking.  And no marks had ever appeared on him.

By his seventeenth birthday, he was too afraid to even try.  What if he was the one person in the history of the world _not_ to have a soulmate?

But now he’s twenty-five and so, so exhausted.  It’s worth the shot.

Soulmates are _necessary_ , after all.

\--

Jongin wears long sleeves to work the next week, terrified of the marks on his arms.  There’s a new one every day and he doesn’t know what to do.  He doesn’t _want_ a soulmate.  He’d even gotten a lifetime of the hope that he’d gotten lucky and didn’t _have_ one.  Now he’s not sure what to do.

Miss Sophie notices, of course, wrinkled hand seizing his wrist and pushing up his sleeve as he hands her her flowers.   “Someone’s a little antsy,” she observes.  “You should probably reply.”

He tries to pull his hand away, refusing to look her in the eye.  After a moment, she lets him.

She pauses at the door, old fingers curved around the bottom of the glass vase.  “He just wants to protect you.”

Friday comes.  Miss Sophie buys exactly three sprigs of baby’s breath, and leaves.  Jongin gets no flower today.  Miss Sophie doesn’t even have to say the words; the silence as the door closes speaks them loud enough.

_Let him try_.

\--

Monday morning brings torrents of rain and an ache in his bones, but Baekhyun is too distracted to particularly care.  He’d gotten up before dawn and stumbled blindly into the shower, cursing his stupid job.  Nothing’s strange then.  He’s exactly as pale as he’s always been, save for the black marks up and down his arms, but he knows every one of them, each straight line and careless dot.

And nothing is strange when stumbles back out, skin reddened by the far-too-hot water and the roughness of his towels.  He dresses quickly, carelessly, pulling on a pair of not-too-wrinkled pants and a shirt that’s definitely seen better days.

The only thought he has is of coffee; while the pot brews, he reheats yesterday’s dinner, hoping that maybe it’ll taste better today.

Things only get strange when he drops his fresh coffee on his almost-presentable pants.

Baekhyun scrambles out of the sodden pants, near tears because _fuck_ _that was hot_.  He drops his pants on the table and stands stock-still in his briefs as his exhausted mind tries to catch up.  It clicks through slowly.  _Picked up coffee pot.  Poured coffee into cup.  Wait.  Forgot cup.  Poured coffee onto –_ and cuts off abruptly.  That is _not_ what his thigh looks like.

\--

Jongin panics.  Just a little.  Just for a day.  It takes three heartbeats after he’s scrawled three stark words – _Where are you?_ – on his thigh for him to scramble into jeans and sweatshirt and not take them off again.  He’s twenty-three and he’s wasting away into nothing and it’s scaring him, but it scares him even more to reach out.  It feels fake.  He’d rather die alone.

But that’s not really an option.  Death goes both ways, when it comes to soulmates.  And Jongin is no murderer.

\--

_Where are you?_ Baekhyun had been asked.  He answers, immediately.  And then he asks _When can we meet?_

The response comes just before midnight, a hasty scrawl in a spotty blue pen.  It feels like a feather brushing just inside of his skin and there’s the most absurd urge to claw the words out of his skin.  But he doesn’t.  It’s been a long day of stressed waiting and now it’s nothing but relief.

_Friday_ , his thigh reads.  _Noon.  Outside the flower shop on 3 rd_.

\--

It’s chilly, but not cold.  Sharp winds tear through the streets, upsetting bins and tearing away awnings.  Jongin taps his fingers anxiously on the countertop as the clock ticks on.  He can’t run.  He can’t hide.  He can’t pretend that this was all some big mistake.  He watches the world swirl by the windows and wonders absently if the window boxes will survive.

The immediate snaps back into focus with the soft jingle of the door.  Miss Sophie walks in, her low heels clacking on the floor.  She looks at him though her thick glasses.  He starts.  It must be noon.

“I’m sorry, Miss Sophie, I have to step out for a moment.”  And he’ll swear his voice doesn’t crack.

She smiles at him.  “Of course, dear.” She smiles at him.  “Oh, but wait a moment.  Take this with you.”

He reaches out without even thinking, mind already a thousand steps away.

\--

They say that you _just know_ when you meet your soulmate.  They say it’s not a jolt of electricity or niggling feeling in the back of the mind, but a quiet certainty.

Baekhyun thinks it’s like looking in a mirror.

The streets are surprisingly crowded for how chilly it is, this late in February, and he’s been jostled back and forth for almost ten minutes while he’s strained to see faces.  Hoping he doesn’t miss his soulmate.  Whoever they are.

He catches a glimpse of yet another mop of black hair and the whole world slows.  Stops.  The man’s two feet away from him, just stepping out of the flower shop, dressed in jeans and a pale sweater.  He’s taller than Baekhyun had expected.  And then he turns, casting nervously about and Baekhyun could swear he can hear the world click back into place.

Baekhyun is pale and tired and this man is dark and dangerously thin.  It still feels like he’s seeing his reflection walking towards him.

He steps forward.  Introduces himself.

\--

Jongin has no words.  They’ve all been stolen away by this intense feeling of _belonging_.  It doesn’t seem to matter, though.  Baekhyun’s got enough words for both of them.

“Poppies are my favourite,” he says, pointing at Jongin’s hands.  “You like them, too?”

Jongin looks down, confused.  Smiles at the poppy in his hands.  “Yeah.  But this one’s for you.”  It has to be.

Baekhyun’s smile doesn’t quite clear the bags under his eyes.  “So, do I get a name with the poppy, or what?”

\--

Baekhyun’s thrilled at Jongin’s apartment.  Jongin never thought it was much, just small, and cramped, and horrible, but Baekhyun’s glowing.  He buries himself in the flowers, drifting his fingers over their delicate petals.  He looks blissful.  Due mostly to finding his soulmate, Jongin is sure.  

But Jongin feels like hell, because this isn’t something he’s ever wanted.  But he doesn’t want to break this moment.  Baekhyun is happy, and that feels almost like peace.

Best to ruin everything now, he figures.  It’ll only hurt more, later.

“Baekhyun,” he says, and almost chickens out, “I don’t want a soulmate.”  There’s more to say, there’s more he needs to say, but he can’t find the words.  So, he waits.

“Then what do you want?”  If Baekhyun’s hurt at all by Jongin’s words, he hides it impeccably.

“I don’t know.”

Jongin’s panicking and the room is too quiet and too loud all at once.  This is not how it’s supposed to be.  You’re supposed to want your soulmate.  You’re supposed to feel like your life is complete.  You’re supposed to want the perfect life with them, children and a marriage and holding hands as you die.  And he does he does he does, but he _doesn’t_.  Baekhyun feels _right_ and _complete_ and _his_ , but none of that is _happy_.

But then there’s a hand in his.  “That makes two of us.”

The world settles.  Again.  Baekhyun’s smiling and Jongin can’t help but smile back.  It’s a little ridiculous.  He’s willing to try, just to keep that smile going.

“Poppies will protect you,” he says, and what kind of idiot just says stuff like that?

Baekhyun doesn’t seem to mind, tilting his head and considering the table full of poppies with drifting fingers.  “Will they really?”

“As long as you let them try.”

\--

Their apartment comes cheap.  Cheap is good.  Cheap means a plant on every surface.  Cheap means dates to local restaurants where they drink a little too much and fall into bed laughing, after.  Cheap means only two jobs between them and food still on the table and a furnace that works.

It’s not orthodox, not in the least.  There’s a fish, but no children.  There are books, but no marriage.  There’s a bedroom, but two beds.

But they’re _happy_ and they’re _healthy_ and nothing but themselves.

It’s all the poppies’ fault.

**Author's Note:**

> [Talk to me on my tumblr!](http://elliesword.tumblr.com)


End file.
